Oh, Come Forth Into The Storm And

The Sweet Of Bitter Bark And Burning Clove.

Happiness Makes Up In Height For What It Lacks In Length.

How Are We To Write The Russian Novel In America As Long As Life Goes So Unterribly?

There Is Absolutely No Reason For Being Rushed Along With The Rush. Everybody Should Be Free To Go Slow.

I Hate The Idea That You Ought To Read The Whole Of Anybody.